Slash Bang
by kuzupekos
Summary: Peko has woken up from her coma, but her reunion with Kuzuryuu is far from a fairy tale ending. Gripped by confusion, trauma, and lasting remnants of despair, the two must come to terms with the fragmented memories that haunt them. [Endgame spoilers. Kuzupeko. Memories of extreme violence.]
1. Alive

**alive**

You stare at the ceiling above you, vision blurry without your glasses. You blink. You swallow the thick saliva that's accumulated in your throat. You inhale. Hold it. And...exhale.

They told you it would take time to get used to being alive again. You didn't understand most of what they said, but the word "ALIVE" somehow piqued your attention.

Alive. Alive. Breathing. Surviving. Existing. Serving. Serving. Servitude. Life. Sacrifice.  
[Tools don't feel.]

Two realities collide together in the vortex of your mind. In one, you died. In the other, you...

(de spa ired)

You stare at the ceiling above you, vision blurry without your glasses. You blink. You swallow thick saliva. You inhale. Hold it. And...exhale.  
There's no denying that you're alive, even if just barely. You can't feel your fingers or toes, and there's a chill deep in the core of your body, encompassing your meridian as if your entire body had been frozen and thawed. You move your head slowly to your right.

He's still there. He's staring at the floor with an expression of...

...It's something complex, a hazy mixture of relief and deep sadness, and your tired mind can't process it. You can't feel it, but you see he's holding your hand. He has been for awhile, you realize, maybe since you were first moved to the cot. He sat down in a chair beside it and grabbed something off the bed. In retrospect, you realize it must have been your hand.

But that's not important right now. The wave of relief that passes over you when you realize he's still there is intense. Your vision is further distorted as tears accumulate in your eyes. As his troubled expression is washed out, you're not sure what you're feeling [tools don't feel] that's causing you to cry.

In an instant, he snaps back to attention, and things become difficult to process again. It takes you several seconds to realize he's wiping your tears and speaking to you. Focusing all your energy on understanding his words, you begin to tune in...

"...okay, everything's fine, alright? ...going to be...make sense soon, once...focus on getting better, then...going to have to let me help you, got it?"

No. You couldn't even pick up half of what he was saying. But your lips part and the faintest sound escapes your throat. You can't believe it's your own voice.

"Yes, Bocchan."

Those are the first words you've spoken since...

(dangling like a marionette and you SLASH SLASHSLASHS LASH and you turn and you don't see him _you don't see him_ but you see the blood and you see his face. no. no. no no nononononono this isn't happening this was your punishment, not his, and you pull his weakened form close to your body a nd you do what you've always done. the only thing you've ever been able to do. the only way you've ever expressed yourself the only purpose for your very existence. To Protect The Young Master.)

The tears... Why the tears? You never cry. Mounting frustration reddens your face and the chill in your body becomes hot. But it doesn't matter. You're still immobile. The Young Master grips your shoulders and leans over you, and you can hear his voice. It's almost like he's shouting... That doesn't matter. It's his voice. His. voice.

You slowly blink. The rivers down your cheeks have dried, still gleaming where the tears had rolled down. You're once again rendered catatonic.

He slumps down in his seat, hand over his mouth. You simply lie there with your head turned, watching him. With all the strength you can muster you speak again. "...Bocchan."

He reaches over and takes your hand again. You think you can feel it, this time. Or maybe it's just your imagination.

Corpses [tools] can't feel.


	2. Those Words

**those words**

"Oi... Hurry and wake up already."

Your knuckles rap pointlessly at the pod containing her sleeping body. No, sleeping isn't the right word. You don't just sleep for five months at a time.

_Comatose._

It's a word that's always in the back of your mind, a word you can't shake, a word that you hate with every fiber of your being. You hate it. But there she is. There, inside a pod that looks like something out of a science fiction manga, eyes shut.

Comatose.  
Might as well be dead.

Loud footsteps slap into the room, echoing off the walls. You don't look up when she ruffles your hair; you can already see the optimistic grin on her face in the reflection off the glass of the pod.

"You still waiting on Pekoyama, little man?"

Your response is soft, tired...beaten. "Yeah."

"They'll wake up. Hinata says he's noticed signs of life in most of 'em lately."

"Most of them?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get too hung up on the wording! If Hinata thinks they're getting better, you know they'll all be up and at it soon enough!" She slaps a hand on your back. "Pekoyama too! Hah, I can't wait to kick Old Man Nidai's ass back into shape when he finally comes to..."

And she talks, and she talks, and eventually you shrug her arm off your shoulders and walk away. You can't stand optimism. But at the same time you can't stand the idea that she might be gone for good.

* * *

That was two days ago. Just like Hinata predicted, here she is.

Here...she is.

You don't know what you were expecting, when the sealed pod opened. Was she going to stand up and walk out? You'd get down on one knee and propose to her right then and there?

You'll never forget how she looked, immediately after the lid to her pod elevated up. She squinted; the fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling must have been kind of shocking. But that wasn't it. It was her expression.

She was terrified.

That giddy joy you'd felt when Souda told you she was waking up, while you ran to the control room with all your strength, as the capsule opened; all of it vanished when you saw her face. There, in her first few moments of consciousness, you're reminded that she knows what it feels like to die.

_Execution._

That's another word you've come to loathe. You remember every detail of hers.  
Every.  
Horrifying.  
(slash slashslashasla blood my eye what happened this isn't rescuing here thisis allYourfault the opposite you made it worse her death more miserable than it already would have been you,you.)  
Detail.

* * *

"Bocchan" is the only word she's spoken so far, aside from 'yes' and 'no'. You don't mind... When you were younger, you'd give her so much shit for calling you that, but it's...different now. She's different. You're different. Her voice is raspy and weak, but you're so fucking happy to hear it...

Souda rushes in and before he can speak you tell him to shut up, that Peko's sleeping. Obviously this isn't true; her eyes are directed at the ceiling, unblinking. Still, Souda lowers his voice before explaining. "Hinata says Pekoyama's blood tests are all good. The preliminary ones at least. Everything's lookin' up, heh!"

You look towards Peko. You don't know if she heard Souda, or if she did, whether she understood him. That gaunt face of hers just...stares at the ceiling. You glare at Souda. He retreats, grumbling under his breath.

Her face. She's not here, you realize.

That's the third word, the worst word, the word that you've come to hate more than anything else in the world.

You see it on her face now.  
She's remembering.  
She's remembering.

You squeeze her hand tighter.

_Despair._


	3. Retch

**retch**

"I mean, it's not like I thought this was all going to turn out like a goddamn fairy tale! I'm not that naive! But come on, Peko! Snap out of it, alright?" He snaps his fingers in your face. You don't so much as blink.

"I allowed you to fall to great depths," you say quietly. Quiet. Tired. Broken. He doesn't look much better than you, though. His one remaining eye has a dark shadow under it, and his hair is messy and unkempt, the carefully shaved patterns on either side of his head overgrown. You watch him as he paces back and forth across the floor of his cabin.

"You act as if I was a child and you were my mother!" He stops near the wall and hits his head against the wood. Hard, from the sound of it.

You cringe at that. You want to get up, to grab him by the shoulders and tell him to stop, but you can't move from your wheelchair. You can't even wheel it on your own... It's so aggravating, so humiliating, depending on others for things as simple as getting from place to place. Using the bathroom is horrific. You nearly soiled yourself last night before finally mustering up the courage to send for Owari, who none too delicately helped you onto the toilet.

You're helpless.

You're helpless, and by association, [useless]. You've been the latter for a long time now. Ever since you saw the first signs, ever since a baseball bat cracked the skull of a girl named Satou. (Useless.)

Trying to get that through the Young Master's head is difficult, but not unexpected. He's always had a stubborn spirit. That's one of the things that hasn't changed, as long as you have known him. Ah. Nostalgia.

He hits his head against the wall again.

"Bocchan, please stop."

He does it once more, forehead hitting the wood paneling with a dull thud. Obstinate. Pointlessly so. He turns to face you, a red mark clearly visible in the center of his forehead now. Then he says something you've never heard him say before.

"I'm not going to argue with you about this anymore."

"...Yes, Bocchan."

"How's your memory?"

"In working order."

"Feh, I doubt it. If it was, you'd be insane by now like the rest of us."

"You aren't insane, Bocchan."

"I went to Hell and dragged you with me."

"That's typical behavior for a teenager, as far as I'm concerned."

He snorts. "That was a damn poor excuse for a joke. You should stay serious from now on."

Without another word, he gets down and lies on the cabin floor. He doesn't move for a very long time.

* * *

You're lying on the cabin floor. You can feel her eyes boring into the back of your head, but you just don't care.

The floor has been a good friend to you over these past few months. The floor is constant. The floor is steady. The floor is strong. You wish you were more like the floor. You wish everyone was more like the floor.

Peko used to be the ground you walked on. Always there. Constant. Steady. Strong. Reliable. She still would be now, if you hadn't taken her and broken her over your knee. The fact that she feels anything but disdain for you is bad enough, without her insisting on bearing the guilt for your many...many...many, many, many many many mistakes.

You think you might vomit, so you say goodbye to the floor and push yourself to your feet, walking wordlessly past her into the bathroom. You expect she can probably hear you retching over the toilet, despite you closing the door and turning the fan on.

You walk back into the room, wiping your mouth on the sleeve of your jacket. She looks paler, but she doesn't say anything. Her eyes are lifeless, focused on nothing in particular. You hate seeing her like this.

"Oi. You alive in there?" You sit on the edge of your bed, staring just as lifelessly across the room, eye focused on nothing in particular.

"I'm not sure," is her response.

Well put.


	4. Shit

**shit**

"You're going to shit yourself, you know," he comments, glancing at you from the bed. He's lying on his bed with his hands folded behind his head. How he can tell that you need to use the restroom, you have no idea. Maybe it's your expression.

"I'm fine," you lie. He ignores you, pulling his PDA from his pocket and sending for Owari. Dammit.

He looks at you seriously. "Don't you dare shit yourself. I can't stand that smell."

(blood mixed with shit mixed with)

He continues. "Corpses shit after they die. Shitting yourself is like dying. Don't fucking shit yourself."

"I won't," you say stoically.

(red blood trickling down his face as he watches in abject horror as we kill the mistress)

Shit.  
Shit.  
Shit.

* * *

Tools do not feel. Tools simply obey. Despair. You know what it tastes like but you've never eaten it whole, like the others. You couldn't. Being a tool has its advantages.

(you hold him still while the young master pistol-whips him in the face breaks his nose it bleeds and he calls the young master 'son' for the first time in years and the young master laughs)

You'd already stolen the guns. It was a well-planned execution of an entire family and their unfortunate laborers. And the dogs. Why did you have to kill the dogs? Why couldn't you just tie them up and...?

(snarling and growls and barking followed by whimpers followed by silence and you understand why they've always been afraid of you)

You killed the dogs first, before the family realized anything was wrong. The next casualty was a domestic servant. The Young Master shot him point-blank in the face. He had probably witnessed the carnage in the kennels and was running from the yard to the house. The Young Master was waiting with a loaded revolver. Bang. (BANG.)

Nothing you weren't used to by that point.

The Master was tied up and forced to watch the executions. This was the first time you'd seen the Master cry.

He commanded you lead them to the dojo. Naturally, you obeyed. [Naturally.] The Young Master insisted you kill Sensei yourself.

(you ambush him and attack him and dispatch him using the techniques he taught you himself and the young master tells you to lick his blood off your hands and you don't know why but you don't question it you just. do.)

And when everything else was done, you dragged the beaten Master to the bathroom, as the Young Master commanded. "He's shit," said the Young Master. "He's going to die like shit."

It reeked. You'd both defecated before the assault. You held the Master still while the Young Master pushed his face into the toilet. He was laughing. He was laughing so hard he was crying. You said nothing as he slowly reloaded the pistol.

(why are you why is this happening you shouldn't have let this happen this shouldn't be happBANG in the back of his head and BANG in his testicles and BANG in the back of his head again and hes writhing he's dead but his body is writhing hold him still so the young master doesn't miss BANG BANG BANG as he unloads the pistol into the man who raised him)

He flushed the toilet and grinned at you.  
You stared back at him.

* * *

He flushes the toilet and grins at you.  
You stare back at him.

You stand up, unstrap the katana from around your back, and kneel down again.  
You place the weapon at his feet and bow your head.  
{I'm sorry I couldn't save you.}

"The hell are you doing, idiot?" He flushes the toilet again, and you keep your eyes cast downward.

"I am ready, Young Master."  
"I told you not to fucking call me that. Ready for what?"  
"Ready for death."  
"The hell are you talking about? Get up. We're leaving."

You're stunned. You were supposed to be the final casualty, weren't you? The last surviving servant of the Kuzuryuu household?

"I told you to get up! Get up!"

You pick up your katana with shaky hands and do as you are told.

"Quit being so goddamn dramatic. C'mon, let's get out of here. Place smells like shit. I can't stand it."

You strap the weapon over your back again and follow him.


	5. Let It Fade

**let it fade**

You had a cot rolled into your room, and with the help of Owari, lifted Peko from one sedentary prison to another. She didn't complain.

She never complains.

Now it's late. You lean against the headboard of your bed and watch her. Her braids are undone, eyes closed. You know she isn't sleeping.

Looking down, you pick at a scab on your right knuckles. How did that…? Oh, right. You'd punched the wall a few days ago. You can't remember why, exactly… Your emotional states are a blur of colors and it's hard to fixate on what feeling caused by what event elicited what reaction.

The scab starts bleeding. You suck at it, eyes wandering back towards Peko's immobile form. Is she asleep now? You're not sure. Sliding down from the headboard, you rest your head on the pillow and turn to face the wall.

{shutitoutshutitoutshutitoutshutitout}  
(letitinletitinletitinletitin)

* * *

You remember things, from when you were in (that place, that state of mind, that beautiful, tragic, devastating trance). Seeing her sleeping—pretending to sleep, most likely—on the concrete floor of a rotten-smelling bunker you'd stopped in for the night. A flashlight sat in the corner of the room, facing the ceiling and illuminating the bunker with a pale yellow light. That's the color she was shrouded in as you watched her, sitting against the wall with your knees elevated, shoes off, dirty socks pressed against the dirty floor. Through a hole in the ball of your right foot, the concrete felt cold.

You crushed an ant with your thumb as it marched across the floor beside you, then looked up at her again, face darkened with a scowl. She was beautiful. Too beautiful. It ruined the mood of the grimy, filthy place. You cursed mentally. Words played in your mind… You'd been thinking in (Her) voice lately; all your thoughts are (Her thoughts, Her words, Her ideas). You'd let (Her) consume your psyche, and the (despair) was intense. You, as an individual, had ceased to exist. You felt like you might vomit.

You returned your attention to the girl lying on the floor. (Her) voice was telling you she wasn't suffering enough; that she was too content with her situation. (Too content. Too full of {Hope}. Take the beauty for yourself so you can squander it.)

She was lying there on her side in those dirty, smelly clothes. It had been a long time since either of you bathed; even longer since you'd had the decency to wash your clothes. You crawled forward and knelt beside her. Your intention was to tear into her flesh with your own, to steal away the sense of security she had in your presence, to throw away the ridiculous trust she'd placed in you.

{Don't.}  
(Do.)

Your hand hovered over her hip, ready to grab the hem of her skirt. Her eyes were open now. You couldn't see them, but you could feel it. Her eyes were open and she knew. (She knows what you're planning.)

(So go ahead and take her. She's too pathetic to resist.)  
{dontpleasedontpleasedontrememberthekittensremembertheEyesdontruineverythingnotyetNotyetnotyetnotyetyouCcouldntkillherdonttouchherdontRuinheryetshesalreadyyours}

It felt like an eternity. You remember watching your hand. It was trembling. (You weak-willed parasite on the face of despair.) Looking up at the wall across from you, you could see the shadow you cast in the wavering glow from the flashlight, looming over her like the specter you'd become. For awhile, you stared at that image, transfixed.

{Don't.}  
{Touch.}  
{Her.}

You pulled your hand back and fell on your ass, then brought that same hand to your forehead. It was coated in a layer of cold, sticky sweat.

"You should sleep," she said quietly, not moving an inch.  
"Shut your fucking mouth," was your low-pitched response. She obeyed. (Of course she obeyed.)

The flashlight in the corner was growing dim. As you lied down beside her, facing the opposite wall, you realized you didn't have extra batteries. Oh well. Let it fade out.


	6. Blame

**blame**

Tears stream down your cheeks and onto your lap and you wonder when you became so weak. [Tools do not cry. Tools do not feel.]

"You're not a tool," he says, his one remaining eye looking empty. Almost empty... There was a spark of...something...still left there. {Hope.} He stands before you as you sit on the cot, legs dangling off the end. It's strange, you think, looking up in order to see him. In a hesitant, clumsy manner, he raises one of your hands to his mouth and gently presses his lips against your knuckles.

No. No, no, no no no-

* * *

It was simple. [Tools don't feel. Tools don't have free will. Tools only behave how they're told to behave.]  
It was so simple. It was so comforting. If you don't have free will, if you're incapable of feeling, then the things that you did were actions performed by your wielder. That's what you've been taught. That's the thing you cling to in order to cope with all of that...

(little girl in tattered clothes crying for her mother as you)

...All the things you did...

(gurgling chokes on her own blood as she)

...The people who died by your hand...

(make sure her heart stops beating)

...It was just...

"It was his fault, then?"

Hinata sat behind you. You could tell his eyes were focused elsewhere, and he was already bored with his task of watching over you while the young master went for a much-needed walk.

You wiped your face. It was useless, of course. He knew you'd been crying. You sat up, turning to face him. Your expression was one of defiance as you played with your long hair, pleating it in a loose braid out of habit.

"What do you mean by that?" you asked hoarsely.

"Mm. I think you know," he replied, shooting you a glance. His eyes would be difficult to make out beneath the dark hair over his face were they not such a luminescent red. "Let's go with the given assumption that killing those civilians was wrong. And since you're clearly so concerned over the concept of blame, let's also assume that someone's at fault."

You raised a hand to your forehead. Now is not the time, Hinata...

"There are three reasonable potential culprits responsible for the deaths of the people you killed. You, Kuzuryuu, and Enoshima. Before you say Enoshima and take the easy way out, ask yourself if your 'master' had free will during that time."

"He wasn't in his right mind. No one was."

"Haha. So you plead insanity, then?" He gave a humorless smile. "Isn't Enoshima the most insane of all?"

You fell silent.

"Despair isn't a mental illness," Hinata explained. "It's more like an addiction. People commit murder for drugs. They're not in their right minds when they do that. Are they guilty of the crime?"

Nothing. There was no use in engaging him in dialogue. He had a rebuttal for everything, anyway.

"I'll put out three scenarios for you. Let me know what you think of them.  
"Scenario one. Kuzuryuu, acting of his free will but influenced by Enoshima, uses you as a tool to commit murder. He is the culprit.  
"Scenario two. Enoshima has total control of Kuzuryuu, effectively using him as her 'tool,' to use the terminology you're used to. A tool can't wield a tool, since it doesn't have any free will of its own. So in that case, who was wielding you?  
"Scenario two A. Enoshima replaced your master by proxy. She is the culprit.  
"Scenario two B. You worked independently of Enoshima and Kuzuryuu. You are the culprit."

"That is ridiculous," you protested. "Everything I did was with, and involved in, and for...them..."

"Scenario three," he continued, ignoring your interruption. "You and Kuzuryuu were both under the influence of Enoshima. You might have been working as a 'tool' in the beginning, but it didn't last that way for long. You started working of your own free will, eventually. You got hooked on despair."

You closed your eyes and looked down.

"Given those possibilities, you have to accept one or more of the following: Kuzuryuu is the culprit behind your actions, Kuzuryuu was dehumanized and reduced to the role of a tool, or you acted of your own free will, influenced, of course, by Enoshima and Kuzuryuu, and hold the blame for your actions."

He said it all so calmly, so cleanly, laying out your fears and organizing them in a way that they make sense. It was terrifying.

"I think you know what the truth is. If you were a tool, you wouldn't be so afraid of admitting it. Would you."

He...doesn't...understand. He can't understand. He's talking as if he understands and he doesn't have the right.

"What is it that you're afraid of, exactly?"

You wanted to say you didn't know, but an answer slipped from Hinata's lips before you had the chance. "'I don't know how to be a person, and I don't know how to accept responsibility for my actions. I'm dangerous and I don't know how to live with myself.' Does that sound about right?"

You nodded. You just nodded. What else was there to do besides nod?

He nodded back. "You know who can show you how that works, right?"

You did know, but you didn't give any indication that his words made sense.

So he went on. "The person who considers you a human being...who's always considered you a human being...and forgave you anyway."

The young master entered the cabin. Instinctively, you turned on your bed to face him. You hadn't realized it, but the expression on your face must have been one of great distress, because the young master began to yell at Hinata-should you even call him that anymore? It seems there's another name that would be much more fitting-and told him to 'get his sorry ass out of my cabin before I shove my shoe in it'. Poorly worded, you thought offhandedly. Hinata got up, no sign of intimidation on his expressionless face, and left without a word.

* * *

"I'm alright, Bocchan. We were only talking."

"What the fuck did he say to you?" The anger his his words is palpable. "I'll beat the shit out of him!"

You shake your head and look down. You don't want to think about it. You feel so tired, after that talk. You just want to...sleep...?

The young master gently takes your chin and lifts it, examining your face. You stare back at him. Where two golden eyes used to be, there's now only one. You feel [don't feel] as if you've been punched in the gut.

Finally, he relents. "...Alright. Forget him for now, then."

He releases your chin and sits on his bed, seeming to be lost in thought. You remain motionless, watching him. A few times, you think he's about to speak, but each time he stops himself.

Your legs swing the slightest bit, as if moved by the very rotation of the earth.

The young master stands up and looks at you. You assume that this time, he's going to speak. You watch him attentively.

"I got... Uh..." His cheeks flush pink, the blush reaching the tips of his ears. He breaks eye contact. "There's something I've wanted to tell you for awhile, alright?"

Your heart sinks. No. No, please don't. Please don't. Please...

"I really..." He clears his throat.

Please don't say it.

"...I love you, Peko."

You don't say anything. What is there to say?

"...That's... That's it," he says after a brief silence. His words seem to hang in the air. Your head tilts down again and you stare at your lap. He takes your hands again, clearly hoping for some sort of response. Your arms are limp. You try to ignore a buzzing noise in the back of your head. Finally, the young master speaks again. "...Aren't... Aren't you...? Don't you have something to say? Anything?!"

You're quiet a brief while longer before you look back up at him. "It is foolish to love a damaged tool." Tears stream down your cheeks and onto your lap and you wonder when you became so weak. [Tools do not cry. Tools do not feel.]

"You're not a tool," he says, his one remaining eye looking empty. Almost empty... There was a spark of...something...still left there. {Hope.} He stands before you as you sit on the cot, legs dangling off the end. It's strange, you think, looking up in order to see him. In a hesitant, clumsy manner, he raises one of your hands to his mouth and gently presses his lips against your knuckles.

No. No, no, no no no-


	7. Submerged

**submerged**

As Sonia hums some foreign song, you give a slight shiver. Your arms are crossed over your chest, legs pressed together as if you're repressing the urge to urinate.

You hate bath time.

Sonia, for her part, seems completely at ease, leaning over the tub and gently rubbing your back and shoulders with a soapy cloth. "It really is so wonderful to have you back, Pekoyama-san!" she says in her characteristically cheerful voice. Her voice is one of the few things about her that hasn't changed. Her once flowing blonde hair has been cut to chin level, tied back with a bandanna. Her sallow skin and skinny stature are emphasized by the loose-fitting tank-top she sports for bathing duties.

She hardly looks like a princess. Then again, you hardly look like a swordswoman.

"You know, Kuzuryuu-san has missed you a great deal," she says, as if this fact hasn't been made quite clear already. "Lean forward, please."

You do as she asks.

"I have been waiting most anxiously for Tanaka-san to awaken," she continues. "But poor Kuzuryuu-san... It was dreadful for him, losing a childhood friend."

"We aren't childhood friends," you counter softly, sitting up again so Sonia can shampoo your hair.

Sonia nods very slightly, clearly uncomfortable with your response. "Well... It seemed as if Kuzuryuu-san considered you as such."

You grit your teeth. You know it's unseemly for you to feel anger towards your master, but irritation is bubbling up inside of you. It isn't fair, you think, for a tool to suddenly and actively be regarded as a human. The feeling is fleeting, and quickly replaced by a deep sense of remorse. You have no right to judge the young master's choices concerning how he views you or how he presents you to others.

"Lean back and dunk your hair under the water."

You lean back. Slowly... using your hands for balance...

Weak.  
When did you become so weak? Weak enough that your hand could slip and your abdominal muscles can't support you?

Your eyes are open. They burn in the soapy water as you stare up at the light above, cloudy through the soap and water.

(Don't fight it. Come back to me. I miss you, angel. We all miss you.)

* * *

"How many are there?" asked Koizumi. She attempted to wipe a splotch of mud from her cheek. It smeared instead.

"Sixty-seven," said Kamukura without a second's hesitation.

Koizumi, Kamukura, Souda, Komaeda, and the young master stood atop a hill. You remained nearby, surveying the damage the broken dam had caused. Bodies bobbed up and down in the flooded valley below, skin sickly white, gaunt faces staring lifelessly at the bottom of what is now a slow-moving river.

"Look at how beautiful they are...! Souda-kun is somewhat reliable after all. I...I need to snap some pictures of this..."

"Wasn't that hard to rig the mechanism that opens the damn thing up. ...Heh. Dam. Damn."

"Shut the fuck up, Souda."

One face that passed by was upturned. His lips were white, eyes glazed over with a thin film, making them appear almost blue. The body snagged between the branches of a partially submerged tree. It pulled against its captor, trying to follow the current, but to no avail.

The melancholic, hoarse laughter of Komaeda drifted through the air like the sound from a broken music box. "A flood of despair... And yet...their bodies rise up to the surface...conquering it... Aha...hahaha... Sacrifices for hope... Look at their smiles..."

"Not a single one of those corpses is smiling, you sack of shit."

"Look at their smiles..."

The body ensnared by the tree's branches tilted onto its side in its attempt to escape. For an instant, you could have sworn it was staring right at you.

"Look at their smiles..."

* * *

"Pekoyama-san! Are you alright?"

You'd been underwater for less than two seconds before Sonia, now wet all down her front, managed to pull you up again. Your eyes burn from the soap. You nod mutely.

"I'll have to be more careful in the future! I vow that I will not let you submerge again!"

How she can feign that level of energy when her eyes are so tired is beyond you.


	8. Side by Side

**side by side**

You sit on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees. She sits there next to you, back against the wall, wrapped in two blankets. She smells sweet and clean, just out of the bath. You hadn't wanted her to sit on the floor, but she insisted. Who were you to deny her the autonomy you'd always hoped she'd grasp onto?

It's been two days since your botched love confession. You're grateful that things have gone as well as they have. That being, nothing has really changed. She hasn't mentioned it. She hasn't rejected you either, at least not verbally, though you don't think she's really capable of doing that.

She shivers. You crawl in front of her and tighten the blankets around her before crawling towards her cot and retrieving her slippers, sliding one onto each foot. She mumbles a thank you and you hesitate. Your hands... Are they shaking...? You know she sees it too, even though she stays quiet. You slip back to your previous position next to her and she starts to remove one of her blankets... She offers it to you silently. You take it and wrap it snugly around her again. She exhales softly, but does't argue.

Her eyes are tired... Her whole face is tired. Through your peripheral vision as you stare straight ahead across your cabin, it's as if there's an old woman sitting next to you. You shoot a glance in her direction.

No. It's still Peko. Her features are careworn, the mark of a woman who's seen more than she should have in her twenty years of life, but she's still beautiful. You're sure she can feel your gaze burning into her... Her intuition has always been like a cat's... So you don't stare for long, just enough to reassure yourself it's still her sitting beside you.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask her.

"Am I to answer honestly?" is her response.

Your gaze drifts back to her. She's still staring straight ahead. Her eyes are unnaturally still. You nod. "...Yeah."

"I'm thinking about a young girl I killed... She couldn't have been any older than ten or eleven. She was shouting for her mother."

Oh. _Oh_. You scratch the back of your head, avoiding eye contact. Your hair's getting scruffy...you'll have to ask Sonia to give you a trim.

It's a moment before she speaks again. "I'm a murderer," she says softly. There's...emotion in her voice. Just barely, but it's enough to make you turn your head and look at her again. There are no tears, and you see her eyes flicker towards your face before staring forward again. She isn't up for eye contact right now, you assume. You stare straight ahead again.

"You're alright, Peko."

You both fall quiet after that. You feel sick to your stomach... _Murderer_... She's a killer, thanks to you, yes, but a _murderer_? The one that holds culpability for the lives lost? You feel something deep inside you break as you're overwhelmed by the realization that she blames herself for the things that happened, the people who died... (It was your fault. You fell into despair and you dragged her along for the ride. how does that feel, fuyuhiko? how does it feel to know that every ounce of pain she feels is because of your impulsiveness, your selfishness, your cruelty. you animal. dis gusting animal. the age on her face, the innocence she lost, the things she's done the things she's seen the nightmares that haunt her  
night after night after restless night. how does it feel to watch her fidget in her cot from across the room in the dead of night? she never had nightmares before. she never had nightmares before. look at what you've done. look at what you've done to her. it's your fault.

It's all.  
Your- -)

You hardly notice when her head hits your shoulder, its descent is so gradual. In that instant everything stops. It must be uncomfortable for her, given your height difference. Somewhere, under the blankets that envelop her, your hand finds hers. Fingers intertwine and your heart is beating fast...too fast. What are you, twelve?

You want to say something, to confirm that everything is okay, even something as chaste as this, but you're terrified that you'll frighten her away, like you might a small animal that's finally brave enough to approach you. She feels so calm... It compensates for your pounding heart and sweaty palms. You hope she doesn't register your nervousness. But you know she does. She shifts very slightly beside you in order to make her position more comfortable, and it takes everything you have not to turn and kiss her forehead. But you manage to resist. Somehow.

You spend the night that way. When morning comes, her neck will be stiff and aching, and your arm will have long since fallen asleep. It doesn't matter. You'll wake up on the floor with your head resting against hers, fingers still interlocked, even if you can't feel them. Side by side, like you've always been. You might cry, though you'd never admit it, not even to yourself.


	9. Fitting

**Fitting**

"Pekoyama. It's fitting enough."

You stared across the table at your father as if he was insane. Pekoyama? He was actually giving Peko the surname _Pekoyama_?

Peko nodded. "Yes, Master. Thank you." She bowed before the table where you and your father knelt. Her shinai was still strapped to her back, braids, dangling. You averted your eyes as she did this. By now, at the age of thirteen, she'd started...developing.

You were jealous, in a way. Not of her breasts, but of how gracefully she seemed to have eased into puberty. You'd think you hadn't hit it yet, if it wasn't for the embarrassing cracks in your voice and the petulant acne on your nose and forehead. But your growth spurt... Why hadn't you hit your growth spurt yet? Peko was a good eight centimeters taller than you by now, and the difference only seemed to be increasing.

Your mind wasn't on that at the moment though. It was on the ridiculous last name your father concocted. As Peko was growing older, she would be out in the world more often, outside of the family's estate. Naturally, she needed a surname to go by. But _Pekoyama_?

Your old man waved you both away as he punched some numbers into his cellphone to contact a man who forged birth certificates. With a grunt of resentment, you got up and walked away, waiting until you're near the stairs going up before speaking to Peko, who walked a few meters behind you.

"Shitty ass name, huh?"

She stopped walking at looked at you with calm eyes. You stared at a potted plant. She'd recently adopted the habit of only speaking when spoken to, probably the result of several months of you passive-aggressively distancing yourself from her. She was finely attuned to your behavior and emotions, almost freakishly so, and it was clear {clear to you, the one who knows her, the _only_ one who knows her, just like she's the only one who knows you} that she assumed her presence was annoying to you. The fact that she believed this was more annoying, in your opinion, but you didn't make much of an effort to convince her she was wrong.

At length, you spoke again. "Pekoyama Peko. It sounds tacky, you know? Like something made up."

"It is made up," she said quietly. She didn't seem bothered by it. Nothing bothered her. "Nonetheless, I find it fitting for one in my position."

Her position...

_Pekopeko_, a cute Japanese word meaning _obsequious_ or _servile_.  
Disgusting.

"I don't like it," you retorted with eyes half closed, arms crossed proudly over your chest.

She nodded her head. "I'm sorry."

Grumbling, you stomped up to your room.

* * *

She crawled into your bed tonight. She said she found the proximity comforting. That goes both ways, of course.

You just want to be close to her.

No heated or rash movements. Nothing passionate, nothing reckless. You lie side by side, two bodies together, three eyes staring up at the ceiling, ten fingers criss-crossed over one another.

You spend a good hour deliberating whether or not to kiss her. Only when her grip on your hand loosens and her breathing becomes deep and slow do you muster up the courage to turn on your side and press your lips to her cheek. When her eyes open your lips somehow find hers, and her hand somehow finds your cheek, and before you realize what's happening you're both crying, foreheads pressed together.

You cry, and cry, and cry, and cry.

"How the hell did we end up like this?" you ask once the crying is done and replaced by shivering and hiccups.

"I don't know, Bocchan." Her red-rimmed eyes are tired, looking careworn without spectacles. "Perhaps my closeness is upsetting you."

"No," you say quickly. "Unless you want to go...don't. Please don't."

She holds onto you as if you were a young child tonight. It seems to be as cathartic for her as it is for you. As if she's protecting you, somehow. That's the only thing she's ever known; the only way she's ever expressed herself. You both wish, as you drift off to sleep, that there was a way to ensure you wouldn't wake up again.


End file.
